


Sorry, Son, You've Gone Too Far

by just_kiss_already



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Angst, BDSM, Cannibalism, Daddykink, Dubious Consent, Emotional Manipulation, Gotta have cannibalism, M/M, Memory Loss, Mental Breakdown, Mildly Dubious Consent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-03
Updated: 2013-06-07
Packaged: 2017-12-13 19:57:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/828246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/just_kiss_already/pseuds/just_kiss_already
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Will blacks out again and finds himself at Hannibal's home, broken and confused. Far be it from our favorite scheming doctor to not use the situation to his advantage. And amusement.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Waking

**Author's Note:**

> Please excuses my typos and such, I do not have a beta tester. Title taken from a Black Sabbath song. Song is unrelated to the work.

Will blinks and is in a shower.

He turns slowly, confused, the water warm but sharp, piercing him like needles. Not his own shower. Gleaming, white, with glass shower doors enclosing a large white tub. Dark bottles line a built-in shelf. The light in the room is dull, a warm mellow tone, and Will can see through the textured glass an adjoining room with bright blinding light.

A knock at the door terrifies him, sends his heart to his throat.

"Will?" The voice on the other side is such a comfort, Will is temporarily speechless. "William?" Hannibal prompts again. "Are you all right? You've been in the bathroom for half an hour." Half an hour in this foreign shower. But not completely alone, thank god. Hannibal was watching over him, apparently.

When Will tries to speak the man's name, it is at first just a pant, a false start. He waits a beat, pressing his hands to the glass door, stabilizing himself, before beginning again. "Hannibal," he says, and his voice sounds raw and confused. His throat hurts, as if from overuse. Screaming perhaps. "W-..." Another false start, this more from the agony of even having to ask the following question. "Where am I?"

There is the briefest of pauses, not one most people would catch, but Will is not most people and he is as close to Hannibal as a drowning man to a life preserver. The pause, just seconds in length, is ripe with meaning. "You are in my home, Will. You came to my house, I thought you were drunk. You drove, your car is here. You were somewhat incoherent. You..." Another pause, this one long and clear and ringing with silence in Will's ears. "What do you last remember?"

Willa's knees are weakening by the minute. He rests his forehead to the glass, enjoying the cool slick pressure. "I was at home. One of my dogs, Edison... He... EHe was sick, the vet had to put him down... I was at home. What time is it?"

"Around midnight."

He came home from the vet's around 3. Dear god. Will's knees buckle completely and he collapses, kneecaps hitting the side of the tub before he ends up crouching, then kneeling, the water practically drowning him, but he does not possess the strength to move.

There are hands on his back and Will realizes that Hannibal must have heard him fall and came to help. In the back of his mind is also the realization that he is naked and should be embarrassed, but the fear and anxiety eating at him leave no room. The man is wearing a dress shirt and tie, now soaked entirely, his normally prim hair disheveled and plastered to his face. He is trying to help Will to stand, hands under his armpits, and Will is shocked at the level of strength that is lifting him with no assistance from his own worthless legs.

Hauling Will out of the shower, Hannibal sets him down on the toilet lid and fetches a towel, vigorously drying Will with a deft, nearly clinical hand. Unperturbed Hannibal, feathers unruffled as usual, despite his now dripping attire.

"I'm sorry," Will says, raw throat protesting. "Your clothes."

Hannibal crouches down and begins drying Will's legs and feet. "Don't be silly," he murmurs, "I have said before that your health and well-being are a priority to me."

The gratitude Will feels is staggering and once again he is speechless. He wants to pour sorries from his mouth like a river of misery, but instead he focuses on the top of Hannibal's head, belatedly realizing what an unusual situation it is. A slight electric surge runs through his torso and strikes his groin, a lightening bolt, and he reaches out frantically for the towel to hide the twitching Benedict Arnold between his legs while pretending to dry himself off.

Hannibal relinquishes the towel with an arch of his eyebrow and Will prays the man did not notice.

Standing, Hannibal moves into the other side of the bathroom where the enormous counter and ornate built-in sink reside. As Will continues to dry himself, he watches Hannibal from the corner of his eye. The man glances in the mirror there and begins to loosen his tie, removing it to set on the counter. Deft square fingers turn to his shirt buttons, swiftly undoing them before pulling the shirt and undershirt off. As he begins on his belt buckle, Will turns away, cheeks blazing, burning, and he hears Hannibal pause, the abrupt silence awkward for some reason Will cannot name.

"Forgive me," Hannibal says. "I had forgotten that you have, well, forgotten the evening. So to speak." At this, Will's ears perk and the agonizing blush works it's way down his neck and chest. What does Hannibal mean by that? What happened? "Your clothes are laundered and on the bed. Please join me in the kitchen, I am afraid we have much to discuss." With that, Hannibal gathers his sodden clothes and turns smartly on his heel, closing the bathroom door without even a click.

As Will finishes drying, he takes stock of his body. Strength is returning, thankfully, enabling him to stand and weave drunkenly towards the mirror. Throat sore, excessive yelling perhaps. Doesn't feel like a cold. He feels exhausted, possibly a side effect of the trauma of the day.

A little nervous, he takes stock of other parts of his body as well. No scratches on his back, his ass feels normal, everything seems to be in order.

What on earth did he do? Or more specifically, did he and Hannibal do?

Will peeks out the bathroom door, towel wrapped firmly around his waist. There, centrally located, a large bed. The masculine blue sheets are rumpled, a mess, completely unlike the fastidious Hannibal he knows and trusts. Sure enough, Will's clothes rest, neatly folded, warm in his hands and smelling of dryer sheets. He quickly dresses, scrubbing his hair vigorously again with the towel.

Standing by the bed, slipping on his shoes, Will finds he's fighting a battle within himself. It would be easy enough to take notice, analyze, or even just simply look critically at the bed, the fact that this appears to not be a guest room but Hannibal's own bedroom, given the books resting on the nightstand along with a near-empty glass of water. He's in Hannibal's private sanctuary, in the man's shower, with uncharacteristically-messed bed linens and a memory of a surprising lack of concern for privacy in the bathroom.

Wandering over to the nightstand, he runs his fingers over the assortment of object, trying to force his mind not to make the connections it is already leaping enthusiastically towards. He finds nothing incriminating, in a manner of speaking, but when glances at the pillows and sheets, if he allows himself to truly take honest note of the smell that lays heavy and musky in the air, Will requires no more evidence. Dear god.


	2. Arriving

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hannibal has a plan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, please excuse my typos. Spell check can only do so much, to my regret.

Hannibal waits in the kitchen, biding his time by making coffee and pouring it into a carafe. He places two mugs on his small kitchen table, mugs he purchased especially for the times Will comes over. They're handmade by a local artisan and, as such, have a rustic look he knows would appeal to Will, set him more at ease than fine china might. As he places the items, he also sets a small glass pitcher of milk by Will's side, knowing he prefers a heavy splash of milk or cream to mellow out the bitterness.

He hears the sound of Will's footsteps, tracks them in his mind, noting when he gets confused and turns the wrong way having never been in past the first floor.

Finally, poor bewildered Will makes his way to the kitchen and stands at the entrance, looking lost and confused, eyes darting around the floor. Denoting his mood, dejected and low.

"Have a seat, Will," Hannibal murmurs. He continues busying himself with minor tasks, organizing some odds and ends, as Will shuffles over and has a seat. Hannibal has know about Will's increasing infatuation with him, has nurtured it in little touches and gentle words, in shared secrets. Now, finally, he was given the opportunity to truly set his plans in motion, to step his own private game up to a new level. Hannibal lets the silence spin out, golden and poisonous. It is rare to have quite this much of an imbalance of power, and Hannibal intends to enjoy it. Usually he is careful to allow Will to feel a measure of control, allow him to lead, creating an atmosphere of friendship and mutual respect. Tonight, though, blessings of all blessings, Will came to his door, nearly catatonic. Hannibal had recognized it for what it was and had escorted him in. Curiously, Will was quite suggestible in his fugue state, and Hannibal had been eager to explore the boundaries of this new mental territory.

"What..." Will begins, but breaks off almost immediately, his face contorting into a series of amusing expressions. Embarrassment, distaste, fear, anxiety, it all flashes across his youthful face, a whirlwind. "Hannibal, what happened while I was here?" A tactful way to approach the question, impressive for socially awkward Will.

Hannibal turns from the counter and rests against it, arms folded across his chest. He has changed into another dress shirt, but decided to forgo the tie. A suit, even just a dress shirt and slacks, is a uniform of power, and Hannibal is entirely unwilling to relinquish even the smallest dram of control he has tonight.

Adjusting his face carefully, Hannibal presents to Will a look of concern with a dash of sorrow and a garnish of regret. "You arrived and were insistent I let you in. I thought perhaps you were drunk, your words were slurred and you had some difficulty walking. I made you coffee, attempted to feed you in the hopes of sobering you up. Will, I am sorry, I did not realize what was actually happening."

"Sorry," Will repeats, toying with his empty mug. Too nervous to make his drink, eager to get on with it. "Sorry for what." Not even a question. A monotone request to please don't say it, please don't hurt me.

Hannibal again pauses, waiting, judging Will's ability to hear the truth. How easy to go on him, that's the question. Would good Will crack under the truth? As for the awkward silences Hannibal is enjoying, they do much towards making William all the more malleable, rendering him helpless and eager for something, anything, to cling to. An ideal state.

Pushing off from the counter, Hannibal takes Will's cup and pours a good amount of coffee, then the milk, exactly as he makes it himself. Making a statement with the act. I see you, I know you. It really is all about the little touches.

As Hannibal lifts his own mug, about to pour, Will grabs his forearm, squeezing tight enough to almost be painful, finger digging in. Still, however, the man is unable to look directly at him and instead stares at the carafe, eyes wild and nostrils flaring, his teeth bared.

"What did we do?!"

And there it is. The signal. Will has been broken enough to set the game into motion.

Hannibal grabs Will's hand and peels it easily from his arm, letting a small amount of anger flush his face, setting his lips into a thin line. In turn, Will shows confusion and the tightening around his eyes suggests a modicum of physical pain at Hannibal's grip.

"Stand up," Hannibal says, his voice controlled but louder in volume, and Will is promptly on his feet.

It is almost enough to make him laugh. Will had shown himself to be highly receptive to orders, it only takes one visit to a crime scene to see that, the way Jack and Will interact. Perhaps... But no, Jack is too dedicated to the idealized construct of his wife he has in his mind, he would be nearly impossible to involve in this particular game.

Will finally looks up into Hannibal's face, meeting his eyes, but he is only rewarded with a cold and blank wall. All the warmth has drained from Hannibal's face, a calculated look, and it has the desired effect of knocking Will even further off his balance, mentally. No physical cues to suggest what Hannibal is thinking or how Will should respond.

Hannibal grabs Will's chin with his free hand and turns the man's face towards him, tilting his head slightly as if to try to catch Will's eye, angling his body closer to crowd in. Make Will feel trapped. Leaning forward, Hannibal murmurs into his ear, "I will show you what we did."

The shiver that courses through Will's entire body is delicious.


	3. Begging

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will is overwhelmed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I couldn't stop, had to write more. Again, excuse my terrible typos. I was so happy I had to post the next chapter immediately. Thank you so much for all the kudos and comments!!!!! Asdfghjk!

Will almost cries out when Hannibal grabs his chin. The physical contact, of which they've had so little, is shocking. And when the man leans in, speaks directly into Will's ear, his brain begins to shut down. It's too much, all at once, he barely even registers what Hannibal says, he's too close, too familiar, too dangerous.

It's dangerous.

For months now Will has felt a growing affection for Hannibal, like a tumor in his chest, swelling, making it difficult to breath in his presence. He has desperately tried to ignore it, willed himself to relish their growing friendship and not completely destroy it with the desire he felt for more. To go further, which apparently they have done, is to risk the only remaining human contact he can rely on and trust.

"No," Will whispers, but he doesn't move, doesn't try to get away. A deer in headlights. Torn between the need for safety and the possibility Hannibal is suggesting.

Hannibal pulls back slightly, lips parted, a soft flash of perfect teeth ready for gnashing, for biting, for violence. "No? Did you tell me no?" His voice is cold enough to burn. Will wants to scream. "I know, Will, I know what you have been thinking. About me. About what you want." A deep inhale. Imparting a truth. "It's too late, the line has been crossed." He releases Will's chin and instead presses his cheek to Will's, his smooth jaw rubbing against Will's own overgrown stubble, nudging his head to the side. "You do not tell me no, William, not anymore. It's much too late for that."

The bite to his shoulder, the muscle between neck and joint, is hard, certain to bruise, almost certain to draw blood even through the flannel and t-shirt. Will inhales deeply, shocked, unable to speak or move as terror has robbed him of control over his own body. At the same time, though, his body is rising to attention, his cock thickening, pressing awkwardly against his corduroys.

Hannibal grasps the back of Will's neck, a firm grip in his large hand, and uses it to direct him out of the kitchen. It's like his feet, his legs are utterly disconnected from his body, all Will knows is the pressure on his neck. They pass into the study, beautiful and pristine, all dark wood bookcases and burgundy rugs, thick winged armchairs in deep forest green. The pressure increases and Will realizes he is being forced to his knees.

The carpet beneath his knees is plush, thick, and he almost pitches forward in a spasm of excited agony. This is not what he had pictured, but it is all the more thrilling for it. Perhaps it is something he needed.

Behind him, Hannibal moves about, he can hear the quiet rustling and a clink of glassware. It seems like an eternity before he appears at his right side, moving past without so much as a glance. Will can feel his entire body straining after him, begging.

A scotch glass in hand, Hannibal settles into one of his armchairs, at once relaxed and at attention, back straight and steady but legs stretched out, splayed. Waiting. A predator watching.

Begging? Yes. Will licks his lips and rounds his back, hands coming down to the floor. He has to fight down his pride, beat it back, but it is not much of a struggle. His body is already begging against for the warmth and strength of that touch, it's not much of a stretch to physically act out that craving need. Silent, he shuffles forward on hand and foot until he is between the other man's polished shoes. A hand descends upon his head, heavy, a rock made of flesh. Fingers toy with his curls, raking them this way and that, and he leans into the touch.

"You had no difficulty asking me before," Hannibal says, somewhere above Will, close to him, like the voice of god in his ear. "I want you to ask again, Will, now that you are present."

A hot spike of aroused agony lances through him, pinning him like a butterfly to the ground. He is unable to move. Trapped. Cold and bloodless with humiliation except for his cock, all his blood now gathered there. Finally with the slowness of mountains eroding, his jaw drops, his tongue moves, but no sounds come out.

The hand in his hair fists, pulls, and pain frees him from his shame.

"Please," Will blurts out.

The hand releases him and Hannibal sits back, his torso now in Will's line of vision. "A start, I suppose. You may proceed."

Will blinks, blinks again, confused. But it is a feigned confusion, he knows this in his heart, and he's sure Hannibal knows as well. Hannibal knows him so well, can read him. Will knows what the man wants, knows what he wants. Is this what they did earlier?

Hesitantly his hands raise, shaking slightly. He brushes his palms past Hannibal's knees, touching the silky wool fabric there, dragging a bit to stall for time. Up the thighs, and he hears Hannibal inhale deeply through his nose, smelling him again perhaps, or perhaps just excited. Will's fingers brush the leather of Hannibal's belt and he starts, surprised, it was so quick, he's not ready. Not even close to ready.

But as unready as he is, he also cannot wait any longer. The desire is overwhelming him, threatening to carry him away.

Will fumbles with the belt, then the fasteners, but finally they are open, revealing the black boxer-briefs underneath.

The clink of glass against teeth, and Will is reminded that he is not alone, that there is a real human beneath his trembling hands. Not a fantasy. Will opens his mouth to speak, the silence is killing him, but he does not know what to say.

Hannibal, however, is not at a loss. A hand cups his cheek and jaw and Hannibal caresses Will's lips with his thumb before sliding the digit into his gaping mouth.

The thumb tastes of scotch, Hannibal must have dipped it beforehand, and it is all at once hot and numbing in his mouth. Will licks the thumb then closes his lips around it, sucking gently, cleaning it. A low, rumbling sound issues from Hannibal's chest, an approving sound. Will's heart and cock swell.


	4. Crying

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hannibal gets down to the matter at hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Typos are the bane of my existence. I'm sorry.

Hannibal pulls his thumb out of Will's mouth, but he's quick to replace it with his index and middle finger, sliding them in past the teeth, over the soft hot tongue, deep, almost down the throat. Will begins gagging, coughing around the invasive fingers, heaving. This time when Hannibal removes his fingers, he's rewarded with a shaky, pained gasp and the hands on his thighs tightening. Will's eyes are narrowed but his pupils are enlarged, lips swollen, signs of arousal.

Clearly, though, Will is too uncertain to continue. It is up to Hannibal to take the lead, not that he minds.

Again he grabs a handful of Will's charmingly soft curls, dragging the man's face closer to his groin while he sets his scotch down and uses his other hand to pull his erection out. Will gasps and his eyelids slam down. Poor, shy, defenseless Will. It's not as if he truly needs to see, though, not if he is to be guided.

Hannibal pulls Will closer still and runs his cock over the man's lips, wet with saliva from gagging. Shocked, Will gasps again, and Hannibal presses himself in a small ways, blocked slightly by teeth.

"Open," Hannibal commands, giving Will's head the slightest of shakes.

Like a magic door, his mouth obeys instinctually even before Will's thoughts can catch up. Without wasting a moment, Hannibal guides himself into that dark, wet space and slowly moves Will's head up and down; it isn't long before he's able to remove his hand and sit back to enjoy as Will continues.

Will is thoughtful and careful, concentrating especially on the sensitive head, sucking on it like one might a fruit before plunging down, taking a good measure of his cock into his slick mouth. He is mindful of his teeth, only permitting the barest of scraping on the underside occasionally. It is a wonderful blowjob, but it is ultimately too precise, too meticulous, and therefore dull.

Using his foot, Hannibal pushes on Will's stomach, sending him collapsing back on his heels. The pain and confusion in his eyes is delicious, sending a flash of pleasure through Hannibal, making his cock twitch in a way that porn-quality sucking could not. Will radiates with waves of a need to please and a fear he is not.

Hannibal tilts his head, watching, reviewing his options. To send Will home now or, worse, simply leave him on the floor and walk away would be quite thrilling, breaking the man even further, rendering him even more anguished and pliable. But the arousal Hannibal feels is insistent, unwilling to be tossed aside so casually, and he wishes to dive at least a little further into Will's potential for depravity. And his capacity for humiliation.

"Remove your clothing."

Again the hesitation. That will be something they have to work on. He can read Will's face, see the questions he is asking himself. Can he bring himself to do it? Is he willing to? Did they do this earlier? Is he good enough? Given a little time and training, though, he will respond without question.

All Hannibal has to say tonight though is "William," in a warning tone, and the man's hands are up, frantically unbuttoning and shedding. All of it guiding him towards a complete lack of power. To be naked before someone clothed, to find yourself obeying commands despite what your better judgement may be screaming to you. Vulnerable, soft, weak.

When poor, shivering Will stands before him, ashamed and naked, Hannibal grabs his arm and drags him closer to his side. As Hannibal yanks him down, Will resists, more than expected, unwilling to kneel and drape himself over the doctor's lap. Hannibal bares his teeth, feigning rage, but Will cannot read the difference between truth and lies with his quick darting glances and, with a complete lack of grace, drops to his knees. Unfortunately for Will, the position Lecter wants him in is not viable while he's kneeling, so as he's being pushed even further down, he must rise up awkwardly, legs stretching out but bent, splayed across his lap.

"You must be more mindful of me, William," Hannibal says. One hand is firmly resting on Will's upper back between the shoulder blades, pinning him there. With his other hand, he caresses the length of his spine before coming to rest on Will's ass. The younger man tenses, uncertain of what to expect.

When the bare-handed slap comes, Will is so startled he yelps, loudly, a touch of indignation coloring the tone.

"Now, Will, tell me, did your father ever employ corporal punishment?"

"No! He-"

Another smack, hard, with all of Hannibal's considerable strength behind it, steals Will's words completely, leaving him only with a guttural cry. The flesh under Hannibal's hand is already hot and red, swelling slightly; he fingers it, always a man to enjoy the results of his work.

"Tell me the truth."

Not one sound issues forth from Will and Hannibal regrets that he cannot both see the man's expression and continue with his punishment.

Another smack is delivered and Will screams. It's not common practice to deliver each hit to the same location, most practitioners work over a general area so as not to cause true harm or damage, but Hannibal has found this to be the quickest route to his goals.

"He... used a belt, sometimes," Will pants. His right hand is on Hannibal's leg, bunching the fabric in a tight fist as if hanging on for his life. The suit will have to be dry cleaned after the night is through.

A reward for honesty, Hannibal rubs the burning spot on Will's ass, pleased. "And did he make you say anything when he was done?"

"... I had to say I was sorry." It comes as a whisper this time and with the faintest hint of an accent. Regression of a sorts, perhaps.

Hannibal's lips twitch with a smile. Time to push even further. "I want you to tell me thank you instead. And do you know how I want you to say it?" Between pornography and the obvious clues left by bringing up his past, Hannibal is sure his clever mongoose will guess.

"Thank you..." The last word is there, Hannibal can feel by the tension in Will's body that the word is there, ready, but trapped by a few remaining shreds of dignity.

The next smack is so strong that Will's legs twitch as if electrocuted and the man almost falls off of his lap; Hannibal moves his arm to around Will's waist, holding him up, and delivers yet another stinging slap. Will is in tears now, quietly losing his battle with himself, in physical and mental agony.

"Say it," Hannibal commands, voice as unruffled as ever, only louder so as to be heard over Will's sniffling.

Another spank. Will screams and sobs, unable to stop.

"Thank you!" he shouts quickly, heading off another slap, but it's not enough and he knows it. Again Hannibal smacks him, and again Will howls. "Thank you, daddy!" As soon as the word rips itself free from his mouth, Will goes limp, defeated.

Hannibal licks his fingers and takes a minute to let them cool before lovingly stroking the swollen spot on Will's ass. It will certainly bruise now, and he enjoys the idea of leaving his mark on him. Carefully, Hannibal helps Will to roll off of his lap, coming to rest between his legs, leaning heavily against one thigh. Will rests his head there, no longer crying and, interestingly, his eyes no longer dashing to and fro in a fit of social anxiety. No, instead, he is simply gazing into the distance, hardly even present. Hannibal takes a moment and brushes Will's curls from his sweaty forehead.

"Say it again, Will, dear," Hannibal murmurs.

Still far off, Will murmurs somewhat miserably, "Thank you, daddy."

Delicious thought, Will bruised and dreamy, calling Hannibal daddy at a crime scene in front of Crawford and the rest.

Smiling, Hannibal sits back and nods meaningfully at his own cock. "Continue."


	5. Losing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, not beta'd. Please excuse my typos. To everyone that has left kudos and comments, I want to smooch you all. Thank you!!!!

Will falls to his task like a starving man to dinner. He is sloppy, mentally barely present, licking and sucking furiously, drooling; barriers have dropped and the man is defenseless. A small smile curves at the corners of Hannibal's lips.

Hannibal lifts his scotch and takes a drink, settling back, enjoying the show before him. "You are so eager for it, aren't you? Tell me. Tell me what a whore you are." Will moans softly around Hannibal's cock, excited by the dirty talk. Extending his hand, Hannibal runs his thumb across Will's forehead, letting his fingers brush his cheekbone. "Tell me, Will."

Groaning, Will sits back on his heels and climbs awkwardly up Hannibal's body, nestling his face in the crook of the man's neck, hiding even as he grinds his erection against Hannibal's. "Yes," he murmurs, ashamed. "I'm a whore, yes."

Hannibal grabs Will's ass with one hand, pulling him in tighter, closer, squeezing too hard. "More."

"I'm... your whore..." Will whimpers. He's clutching Hannibal's shirt front, clinging. "Daddy... Please..."

"Please what, Will?"

A shudder courses through Will's body and he's panting. Close to orgasm already, having been celibate for so long. "Please touch me," he says, "please, daddy."

"Are you mine?" Hannibal is enjoying this, drawing out the last of Will's shame, hunting it down like a wolf his prey. "Tell me, who do you belong to?" He shifts, lifting Will's hips with his own so that Will is now straddling his leg; Will begins to rub against it, the silky feeling of the thin pants, the strength of the muscle it encases.

"I belong to you, daddy, please, I'm yours, please."

Hannibal rises, helping the unsteady Will to stand and then kneel in the chair, leaning forward so that his arms are captured beneath his own curved body. Will waits, uncertain but trusting. He can hear Hannibal moving about the room, drawers opening, but he's unwilling to turn to look in case Hannibal doesn't want him to. Anything Hannibal wants. And only what he wants. Forever.

A cold hand presses against his lower back, reassuring, bringing Will back to the present. Hannibal's voice flows like water behind him, a soothing but crashing force of nature. "Your body is mine now, William, you belong to me." A slippery wet finger grazes against Will's hole, stroking there a minute before gently forcing it's way in. Will tenses, unable to breathe, but again Hannibal's voice is in his ear, reassuring, relentless. "I will make all the decisions that need to be made, darling Will, you needn't worry anymore." A second finger works it's way in, stretching him, at once invasive and welcome.

And then they are gone, and Hannibal is behind him, looming, pressing himself against Will's ass. Will is reminded of the muscle, the strength, this man possesses beneath his tailored and dignified clothes, and a sharp shot of fear pierces the fog of his lust.

As Hannibal slides in, slowly, letting Will accommodate him, he strokes Will's sides and back, murmuring the kinds of endearments that he prefers, the kinds he will teach Will to prefer as well. "I have you, shh, calm down, daddy has you." As soon as he is firmly seated, not all the way in but enough, Hannibal reaches around, finally granting Will the pleasure of his touch. Beneath him, Will's body shivers and quakes like the plucked string of a violin and he tightens around Hannibal's cock, eliciting a low moan of pleasure from the doctor.

Stroking firmly, Hannibal begins to thrust in earnest and, unable to help himself, knowing Will is only half listening at any rate, his voice raises and he snarls with loving vitriol. "My whore," he says, the fingers clutching Will's hip digging in. "You've made me wait so long. I saw you watching me with those shy eyes. Tease. Now you are mine. Say it, William, say what I want to hear."

Will opens his mouth but is barely able to speak, his breath is caught in his throat from the dual feelings of agony and pleasure, from the fire of lust that is threatening to consume him whole. "Yes," he manages to choke out. "Yours. Please." He's close, so close to the edge, looking over it into a chasm from which he can never return. "Please, Hannibal, please, yes."

The orgasm comes so intensely that Will is certain he will pass out. The heat and red of the fire inside of him fills his limbs, his vision, surely it is spilling from his mouth and his eyes, from his cock, from his every pore.

Hannibal feels Will clench again around him as he comes and, ready himself, he bites Will's shoulder, the same one as before, harder even still this time until the taste of blood leaks into his mouth, tangy iron, meaty, salty with sweat. Groaning, the blood of his favorite project on his lips, Hannibal releases, filling Will.

After a few heartbeats, Hannibal removes himself from Will, letting the man sag down in the chair, boneless. The chair will have to be thoroughly cleansed. Or perhaps thrown out, depending. Readjusting himself and his clothing, Hannibal licks the smear of Will's blood from his lips before going over to help him stand.

The look in Will's eyes is priceless, completely and utterly lost, in love, a completely opening and giving of the self. Hannibal decides to store away the knowledge of what they did while Will was in his fugue state earlier. After all, it could always be useful in further breaking his mind to let him know that the most Hannibal made him do was talk.

He will need a shower and perhaps some sleep before they begin discussing Will moving in. After all, what better way to keep track of his new toy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long, I had to get stitches in my finger and then I had a really bad reaction to the tetanus. Agh!! Also, I've been told I don't write particularly good sex scenes so, ummm, be gentle? Lol.


	6. Chewing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick epilogue, a quick note on what happened during Will's fugue state from Hannibal's perspective.

Will's hands jerk and stutter as they bring the raw meat to his mouth. Eyes glazed over, unmoving. Jaw working methodically to tear through the red, ripe lump of flesh in his mouth.

Sitting next to him, Hannibal smiles. He hasn't felt this happy in weeks. "Do you know what you're eating, dear?" he says, stroking Will's sweaty curls. "You're eating a particularly unpleasant young lady from the grocer. Her thigh."

Still Will continues to chew.

"You're making quite a mess of yourself," Hannibal clucks, eyeing the blood dripping down Will's chin. "I suppose we'll have to clean you up. But first, let us chat about your childhood. And," he adds, eyes darkening, "what the FBI knows about the Ripper."


End file.
